


In Which Clint Makes Coffee, Mistakes, and Watches Science Fiction Instead of Dealing With His Feelings

by TheBiSpy



Series: The Red Pepper Café [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: And so is Lost, Angie is sassy, Clint is a nerd, Dancer Natasha Romanov, Doctor Who is Better Than Feelings™, F/F, F/M, I am a girl I can confirm this, Mentions of Emotional Abuse, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Punk Steve Rogers, Steve is a punk ass bitch, Tony is a pain, alrighty y’all, and Denny’s is the key to a girls heart, and has an arrest record!, apparently, but mostly fluffy stuff, time for tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 09:08:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13314981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBiSpy/pseuds/TheBiSpy
Summary: Clint starts falling madly in love but decides that Doctor Who is better than feelings.





	In Which Clint Makes Coffee, Mistakes, and Watches Science Fiction Instead of Dealing With His Feelings

**Author's Note:**

> Ok part 2. Have fun. I’m watching The Hunger Games, waiting until I can see The Last Jedi, tired, and desperate for my OTP’s to be cannon.

Clint Barton lived on the twelfth story of a modern block of flats just five streets away from the _Red Pepper Café_ , or a fifteen minute walk if there’s not too many people. In the building lived a wide range of diverse people, all whom knew Clint well enough to say ‘Merry Christmas’ if seen in passing, but not well enough to ask how his weekend was and how the café was doing. 

Each weekday he woke up at 6:30 am, walked to the café at 7:15, and was ready to work by 7:30. 

At 7:30, Tony was already downstairs in the kitchen with Thor, the Norwegian baker that had stumbled into the café one rainy afternoon, struck up a conversation with Tony, become a regular, become a friend, and then been hired when they discovered he could bake pastries that would make Gordon Ramsay look like an amateur. Clint usually plugged his phone into the speakers and shuffled his music, which ranged from jazz to cinematic soundtracks to obscure ‘aesthetic’ artists to classic rock. 

At 7:45, Angie arrived, bright faced and talkative, ready to take orders and converse in small talk with customers. 

At 8, the first customers trickled in, mostly students and hurried workers, who ordered different varieties of coffee and muffins in takeaway boxes and cups before bustling off. At this point, Tony and Thor had finished with the morning round of baking and came out of the sugary smelling kitchen to give the tables a quick wipe down and grab a coffee that Clint always set aside for the two before the rush of business men and women looking for a quiet place to sit and work started to flood through the doors. 

After the heavy morning rush with Angie working behind the counter with him, he prepared for the trickle of mothers with screaming children, and hipster bloggers to take their respective seats at the tables and order obscure teas and blueberry muffins that would be consumed over chatter that Clint found rather entertaining to listen in to while drying coffee mugs. 

At 2:30 Angie left after wiping down the tables and hanging up her apron. At 3, Steve got in from art school, covered in paint or charcoal, hanging his satchel and one of his many black jackets on the coat hangers in the kitchen before pulling on an apron and helping with the afternoon of tourists, students in need of a break and quiet place to study, and people who dressed like FBI agents and typed furiously on their computers with furrowed brows. At this point, Steve plugged in his phone and played his own music, which was all heavily pop punk. 

At 5:30 the café took its last order and Steve flipped the ‘OPEN’ sign to ‘CLOSED’. At 5:45, the last people had filtered out and Tony, Thor, Steve, and Clint all cleaned up for the night. 

On weekends, Clint woke up at 11 am, was out the door by 12, and arrived before the lunch rush at 12:15, where Steve and Angie would already be working and chatting. 

At 2, Steve finished his shift and either left, or sat in one of the booths to work on his art or edit photos. Angie chatted away with Clint happily, the two serving coffee, cake, and sandwiches. At 5:30, the café shut as usual and, depending on the Saturday, everyone went upstairs for movie night with Pepper and Tony. 

To say the least, Clint Barton’s life had a perfect rhythm and comfortable motion that he wouldn’t change any time soon. 

That statement, however, is a complete and utter lie, as he would soon find out. 

 

This particular tale begins on what was considered a completely usual Friday at the time, but would soon come to be a marker in Clint’s life. The weather outside was a typically perfect Autumn day, with the leaves blowing across the pavement delicately in their gold and red hues, the people outside dressed in cozy jackets and scarves, and the sun shining through the light clouds above, giving everything a golden perfect glow. Angie had just left, driving to pick up Peggy from law school before an audition, and Steve had begun taking orders for hipster bloggers with large glasses and elderly ladies who were far more talkative than Steve actively enjoyed. 

“Clint,” Steve sighed after a rather chatty old lady with a brightly coloured knit jacket had said goodbye and left the café. “Why do they _always_ talk to me.” 

“What, old ladies and hipster bloggers?” 

Steve nodded, rubbing his face, carefully avoiding his left eyebrow, which currently had studs in it. Fall Out Boy was playing as softly as Fall Out Boy can over the speakers from Steve’s phone, adding to his ‘punk ass bitch’ vibe. 

“You’re small and cute. They love it.” He lowered his voice as to not attract the attention of nearby tables. “If you started the conversation with ’sup guys I eat mad dick 25/8’ they’d _probably_ feel more obliged to leave you the fuck alone.” 

“Maybe ‘wassup fuckers I burn Nazis like it’s the witch trials’ is better? But everyone hates Nazis. Even Nazis hate Nazis, deep down in their hearts.” 

“Louis Theroux and the Nazis told us that.” Clint raised his eyebrow, flipping a switch on a milk frother. “But no. ‘Sup I eat chicks and guys like you eat our cake and cookies’ sounds like a good one.” 

“Hmm...” Steve leaned back on the counter, hands motioning lettering on a banner. “Sup bitches I eat puss like pizza and cock like cupcakes.” 

“Although, that raises the question; have you ever ever _eaten_ -“

Steve slapped him with a tea towel. “Shut up.” He blushed madly. “Oh, hang on-“

The door opened and Steve jumped to the till, putting on his winning ‘buy our shit please’ smile. A woman who didn’t look older than 24 with bright red hair and striking features walked in with such an aura of confidence that Steve’s smile was replaced with one of awe for a moment.  
Clint was star struck. _If this was a movie_ , he thought, _This would be in slow motion. With violins._

“Hey, how can I help?” Steve said with a surprising amount of calmness compared to how he felt. 

“I’ll just have a black coffee with one sugar thanks.” Her voice was rich like honey, and Clint forced himself to look busy. 

“Sit in or takeaway?”

She frowned for a moment considering. “Hm. Sit in.” 

“Alright,” Steve said, writing down her order. “That’s $3.50. Pick a seat, thank goodness it’s not too busy.” 

She smiled, and turned on a heel to sit on a stool by the _Our Story_ wall, which had one more picture added to it since the opening of the café three months previous. It was a photo Steve had managed to capture with Clint, Thor, and Angie, all behind the counter, laughing at something being said. 

Steve turned to Clint. “You,” he said firmly. “Are taking her order over because you _clearly_ want to.” 

Clint swallowed. “Yeah.” He said slightly faintly. “How the fuck are you ok?” 

Steve shrugged. “I think she’s attractive and confident, but I’m not developing a mad crush on her at a speed Michael Schumacher would envy.” 

Clint nodded, spilling the contents of a nearly empty coffee mug on his apron. “Shit.” 

 

“One black coffee with one sugar,” he said as he placed the mug beside the woman. Closer, he could see how her clever green eyes seemed to be calculating his every move. 

“Thanks.” She said, sliding it across to herself. “Oh, and who took these pictures?” 

“That would be Steve.” Clint pointed to where Steve was leaning against the till, drawing on his arm in biro. 

“Hm,” the lady said, taking a sip of coffee. “They’re very good. And so’s this coffee. You make it?”

Clint nodded, fiddling with the backs of his hearing aids. She smiled, turning to pull out her laptop. He walked quickly over to the coffee machine again, Steve turning around and laughing at how pale his friend looked. 

“Don’t.” Clint muttered. 

“I have _no_ idea what you’re talking about.” Steve grinned. 

 

Clint had spent most of his evening alone convincing himself he was a) going insane, b) never going to see her again, and c) going to get over himself.  
He decided his convincing wasn’t working that well and decided to watch _Bladerunner_ and _Bladerunner 2049_ in an attempt to distract himself. It worked, up until a point where instead he slept quite badly contemplating humanity and having weird fever dreams about Harrison Ford bursting into the _Red Pepper_ and trying to find a Replicant in their midst. 

He stumbled in at his usual time, looking more disheveled than he wanted to, and pulled on one of their signature black and red aprons over his purple shirt. 

“Clint.” Angie said as he began making coffee. “Steve tells me you were _rather_ star struck by a certain redhead yesterday.” 

Clint thumped his head against the top of the coffee machine, groaning. 

Angie grinned. “Oh my _gosh_ , Clint _Barton_ you are a _mess_.” 

“Did you stay awake thinking about her all last night? Is that why you look like a heroin addict?” Steve said as he walked past with dirty plates for the dishwasher. 

“I hate both of you.” Clint muttered. 

Angie pouted, elbows resting on the counter, large 50’s skirt swaying slightly. “Do you? Do you _really_?” 

“I have no idea how Peggy puts up with you.” Clint muttered. 

“She loves me.” Angie shrugged, standing up to take someone’s order. 

 

When Steve finished his shift, he sat in a booth in the furthest corner, putting in earphones and working on a few pictures he’d taken of the beautiful autumn scenery outside in the city.  
The café was quiet, an old couple sitting at a table conversing deeply, and a group of teenage girls sitting giggling over coffee. 

“So,” Angie said quietly, wiping down the counter. “Tell me about this redhead.” 

Clint sighed in exasperation. “Fine.” He said defeatedly. “She’s got really red hair, like bright red. And clever green eyes that kind of make you feel a bit intimidated? Strong features, but damn if she isn’t attractive. And her voice, it’s like honey.” 

“And her name?” Angie asked. 

Clint frowned. He didn’t actually _know_ her name. Calling her the ‘Scary Hot Redhead’ in his head seemed stupid now. Not that it hadn’t before, but it sounded even dumber now. “I uh... I dunno. Didn’t talk that much.” 

Angie frowned. “How can you _possibly_ know you’d want her if you don’t know her name?” 

Clint sighed. “I dunno man. She seemed really nice. I doubt she’s gonna come back.” 

“And you will think of her all the time, wishing you had talked more and got her name, but alas, she has slipped from our lives like snow in an avalanche!” Angie said dramatically, hand to her forehead. 

“Why haven’t you been hired by _any_ productions yet?” Clint muttered, dirty tea towel in hand. 

“Shush, my big break is _coming_ , I’m only 23.” 

And the afternoon progressed without disturbance, in fact, much tranquility that is slightly unusual in the _Red Pepper_. The above statement is true for Steve, who didn’t look up once. 

It is not, however, true for Clint or Angie who did think the above statement would carry out for them as well. Unfortunately, as with the ways of the world, thinking and happening are two different things. 

And it all began when the door to the café opened quietly and the sound of heels clicking across the dark wooden floor caused Angie to look up from texting Peggy, and Clint to nearly have a heart attack. 

“Heya, what can I get for you today?” Angie said in her usual friendly tone. 

The redhead smiled, putting her phone in her bag. “Just a black coffee with one sugar please.” 

Angie raised her eyebrows while writing the order down. “Yikes, that’s bitter.” 

“As dark and bitter as my soul.” The redhead said with a smirk. 

“Same.” Angie chuckled. “Anything else for you today?” Angie asked. 

“No thanks.” The redhead replied, glancing quickly at Clint. He quickly looked away, pretending to be busy. 

“Sit in or takeaway?” 

“Sit in.” 

“Alrighty,” Angie passed Clint the order on a piece of paper. “That’s $3.50.” 

And she turned, heels clicking and loose shirt swaying around her waist, before she sat in the same place as the day before. Clint admired her levels of pure authority she seemed to radiate, and then kicked himself internally. _He still didn’t know her name_. 

Angie nudged him. “Is that her?” She hissed. “Damn, I can see why you like her, chicks _smoking_.”

“Angie!” He said in mock horror. “You have a _girlfriend_!”

Angie shrugged. “I can still appreciate a _fine_ individual when I see one.” 

Clint busied himself by making the coffee, and Angie pointed out he was being so exact and perfect it made her jealous that they didn’t get the same treatment. 

 

“One black coffee with one sugar.” He said quietly, placing the mug in front of the woman. 

“Thanks.” She said, looking up at him. Clint hoped he didn’t blush. “Cute spot you got here.” 

“The café? Oh yeah. Tony and Pepper’s honeymoon idea.” He laughed awkwardly. 

“Cute idea. Explains the _Red Pepper_ part of the café.” 

“Hm well,” Clint began. “Tony can be a massive sap.” The two stood in a two second silence that felt both a) too long, and b) to awkward, so with a hurried goodbye, Clint walked back over to where Angie stood grinning smugly. 

“So Steve wasn’t kidding when he said you are absolutely star struck.” 

Clint slapped her with a tea towel, blushing, which made Angie laugh. 

 

Clint truly did _not_ want this to become a recurring theme in his life. He had a perfect rhythm before this, albeit predictable and easy, but _now_ he was binge watching sci-fi films and thinking about a mysterious redhead whose name he didn’t even know and if she would be at the café the next day. He also stayed up worrying if he sounded like a stalker in his mind. He couldn’t text Steve or Angie or Tony because they’d probably take the piss. He couldn’t text Pepper or Bruce because they’d be asleep. And he didn’t even have Rhodey’s contact details. He decided his best option was to see if she came in more and then maybe ask what her damn name was. 

Or just admire her from afar and never really speak to her and continually wallow in his own regret. 

 

The cycle continued for weeks after that. She’d come in, order the same thing, and sit in her usual place by the photographs on the wall. Clint would take her coffee over, the two would make small talk (which he hated), and then he’d go back to making coffee or telling Steve and Angie to _shut the fuck up_.  
He’d then go home and regret not talking to her more. 

In fact, with each passing conversation he had with the mysterious woman, he found new things that he adored about her; the sarcastic comments, the clever remarks, the ease in which she gave compliments, how her eyebrow twitched upwards slightly when she made a flirty jab, the smirks she gave when he said something mildly amusing. 

_Nope_ , he thought. _I am losing the plot._

 

“Natasha!” 

The dance instructors voice echoed around the room and she stumbled slightly, looking up. 

“Yes, sir?” She said, straightening up as the music stopped. 

“This is the third time this week we’ve had the _same problem_.” The instructors grey hair reflected the white lights overhead, face hard with undercurrents of anger in his neutral expression. 

“Sorry, sir.” She said. 

“What did we say?” He started, gesturing wildly. 

“Arms high through the jumps, head up through the lifts, left leg higher in the transitions.” She replied, quoting the instructor from the days previous. 

“You’ll do well to remember it.” 

She nodded, pushing a hairpin back into her bun. 

“Alright, from the beginning of the scene.” The instructor called, and the company sighed. Natasha blushed deeply. She _should_ know how to get this right, yet she was _somehow_ fucking the _entire thing up_.  
She forced herself to concentrate through the entire scene harder than she had before, which earned no comment from the instructor. She took it as a good sign. 

 

“You seem distracted Miss Romanoff,” T’Challa, her dance partner said after rehearsal. 

“Do I?” She replied, hurriedly shoving her equipment into her bag. 

He leaned against the wall next to her. She usually enjoyed the mans presence, and she was one of the only people in the school who actually saw him as a dancer as apposed the Prince of Wakanda, but at that particular moment in time she wanted to get out of the damn ballet school into the little coffee shop and sit for a while and enjoy her own down time.  
“You know we have a show in two weeks?” 

Natasha nodded, standing up. “I’ll have the dance perfect by then.” 

“I don’t doubt that,” he walked with her down the long hall towards the ballet schools entrance. “But please, for your sake and the company’s,” he said, as they reached the glass doors that led to the streets outside. “Leave personal life out of your mind for a while. It is a sacrifice we must make. We learn it the hard way.” 

She sighed, pulling on her hoodie. “Yeah. But hey,” she began. “Only two weeks until performance and then only a week of performing itself.” 

T’Challa smiled, just as a familiar voice called her name. “Aw shit. I gotta go.” She muttered, turning to see the dance instructor at the end of the hall. 

“Good luck, Miss Romanoff.” T’Challa pushed the doors open and disappeared. 

“I’m gonna make this quick.” The instructor said sternly. “You were given the role of the Black Swan because you are supposedly one of the best dancers this establishment has to offer. Now I don’t know what goes on in that head of yours but you need to _get a grip_ , and fast.”

Natasha nodded, face expressionless. 

“If you’re only one of the best, we can replace you after this is finished if you don’t get on the ball. I suggest you stay here and you practice. _Hard._ ”

She nodded again, and he walked away. She pushed open the glass doors to the street outside, turning to walk towards _The Red Pepper_ before deciding that why she kept going was what could be considered a personal matter, and a distraction, and instead turned towards the empty practice studios. 

 

“Huh.” Steve said as the café shut. 

“What?” Clint replied, wiping down a table. 

“She didn’t come today.” 

Clint sighed, clicking his back as he stood up. “Yeah. Maybe she’s sick or something.” 

“You’ve said that for the past week.” Steve muttered, balancing plates and mugs on his arms. Tony popped his head out of the kitchen, picking up cutlery that Steve had left behind. 

“Oh my. This truly is a mystery.” Tony said, forks jangling together. “I wonder what’s happened?” 

Cling shrugged, pretending not to be too phased. In reality, he was. He kept thinking about how they’d never exchanged names, how he just missed her presence by the window, how he wished they’d talked more, and a whole range of things that Angie said was fairly dumb because half of them didn’t apply to his situation. 

“I really hope you don’t still refer to binge watching _Doctor Who_ as cathartic.” Tony began, leaning on the counter. “Have you finished David Tennant?” 

Clint muttered something indistinguishable and Tony cupped a hand over his ears. “I can’t hear you.” 

“I’m halfway through Matt Smith.” Clint said, blushing furiously. 

“At least you’ve found someone else’s love life to cry over.” Steve called. 

“Fuck off, Steve.” Clint shouted back. “I will _never_ be over Tenrose.”  
Steve and Tony laughed. 

 

It had been nearly two weeks since anyone at the café had seen the mysterious redhead. Clint was trying to decide wether he scared her off, wether it was too noisy in the café, wether she had suddenly received a terrible illness, or wether she had merely disappeared off the face of the earth. Even Steve and Angie teased him less, instead giving him pitying smiles at the end of each day when she failed to emerge through the café door. But through all of that, his life fell back into the cycle it had once had (see beginning of the chapter for more). 

 

It had been nearly two weeks since Natasha had stepped inside the little café she had grown to be ever so fond of. Instead, she had spent every waking moment she wasn’t at rehearsal, practicing a new fault the instructor had picked up that day. T’Challa said it was unfair on her, and that the instructor was being biased and cruel, but now she had this cycle of practice continuing, she found it hard to stop.  
Though she did still find herself thinking about the man who made the coffee and small talk each time he gave it too her, before mentally kicking herself to concentrate. What was going on? She had no idea. 

 

“Y’know,” Angie said one cold Saturday in early December, as the two walked up a busy Broadway street. They had decided to take a longer route home, which meant walking up the colourful streets covered in lights and signs and people, although it was cold, the freezing wind nipping at anything exposed out of their thick jackets. “One of these days I’ll be on the stage. Just you wait.” 

“Just you wait.” Clint sung quietly. Angie joined in, having memorised each word after going to see _Hamilton_ with Peggy. 

The two continued until they kept getting dirty looks from strangers and laughed.

“I would laugh so much if they cast you as Peggy.” Clint chuckled. 

“I would hate to be cast as Peggy. She disappears after one song.” Angie replied, heels clicking against the pavement, adding to the buzz of noise around them. “Hey, ever considered watching a ballet on stage? I have. The ballet company put on productions each year.” 

“What, Shield School of Arts?” Clint asked raising an eyebrow. “Doesn’t Steve study there?” 

“Yeah, but their campus is huge. It has like, four buildings all around here. Steve goes to the one down a street.” 

“Damn. Must be prestigious.” Clint said with a degree of sarcasm. 

“Like we don’t tell that to Steve all the time.” Angie sighed. “But then he says ‘oh I’m not _that_ good, I really got in on luck, etc. etc’. Anyway. Come here, let’s look at the posters.” 

As the two made their way over to the front of the school, where several posters had been pinned up on display, Clint noticed something in one and made his way over, jacket swishing quietly. 

“Nutcracker, Cinderella...” He heard Angie rally off behind him. “Damn they have a range. I’m assuming it’s all different stages of the school though, or the classes are huge. Hang on.” She noticed Clint staring at one with a look of shock and intrigue. 

“Angie...” he breathed, pointing to a dancer in all black on the poster. 

“Holy shit.” Angie said. 

The mysterious redhead was a _dancer_. She was the Black Swan.  
And her name was Natasha Romanoff. 

 

“Guys.” Clint popped his head through the kitchen door of the café when he arrived on Monday. Thor was covered in flour, rolling out pastry with a marble rolling pin. Tony looked up from chocolate batter, hair wild. 

“Hello, Clint Barton.” Thor said, voice like thunder. “What matter is on your mind?” 

“I know her name.” 

Tony dropped a spatula, but didn’t bother picking it up. “You _what_?”

Clint walked into the kitchen, leaning against the counter. “She’s a _dancer_. She goes to Shield. Her name is Natasha Romanoff.” 

“Natasha Romanoff? We have had _the_ Natasha Romanoff in _our_ café? Oh my god I’m telling Pepper.” And Tony pushed open the kitchen door. 

“Wait Tony, how the _fuck_ do you know who that is?” Clint said running after him. 

“We saw her last year in _Cinderella_. Dear old Dad got us tickets, saying she’s like, a rising dance prodigy. I just didn’t recognise her.” Tony explained hurriedly. 

Clint was left rather perplexed, standing halfway up the staircase, with his apron in his hand. Sighing, he put it on, tying it around his waist before making a strong coffee. When Thor walked out of the kitchen for a break, he noticed how white Clint looked. 

“What news, my friend?” He asked with a degree of concern. 

“I have no idea.” Clint replied faintly. 

 

Angie went to see the ballet with Peggy. She said it wasn’t stalking, it was appreciating art. Tony called it stalking. Steve called it appreciating art. Peggy called them both pricks. Clint didn’t say anything, instead opting to watch the few videos that Peggy had taken of the night, of which were slightly grainy but from what Clint watched, Natasha Romanoff was an utter sensation. 

Tony said she was a Russian student who got a placement in Shield a year previous, but was already one of the best soloists in the school.  
Pepper said she was offered place at Bolshoi but chose Shield because ‘She couldn’t deal with Russia’s bigotry for another year’.  
Steve said he’d seen her around the campus before, without realising she was one of Shields best dancers.  
Clint called them all stalkers and slapped Steve when he said they were ‘appreciating art’. 

 

It was one freezing cold day in mid December, when the snow was falling in droves, and each customer that came in was gifted with blissful heating and an obscure Norwegian cookie that Thor had baked several batches of that morning, when Clint’s life changes again. Steve’s (currently dark blue) hair was still covered in snowflakes, plaid shirt rolled up at the sleeves.  
Clint had decided that, as a joke, he was going to tie his apron as a miniskirt and shirt like a tight crop top, which Steve and Tony both lost their shit over, and two old lady’s looked at him with a level of disapproving hatred that Clint failed to notice. 

It was at a point in time, 15 minutes before the café would shut, when Steve had just suggested he pole dance on the coat rack and Tony laughed so hard that coffee came out his nose that the door of the café was pushed open quietly and Natasha walked in for the first time in weeks, looking slightly disheveled and all the less confident. 

“Oh my, Clint look.” Steve muttered, while shoving Tony into the kitchen so he wouldn’t be able to fuck anything up. 

“Hey, how can I help?” Steve said as she approached the counter. 

“Just a black coffee with one sugar thanks.” She said quietly. 

“Ok. Is that all for you today?” 

She nodded, placing $3.50 on the counter and walking quietly over to the very furthest booth before huddling in the corner. 

“Talk to her, damnit.” Steve muttered, passing her order to Clint, who was already making the coffee anyway. 

Clint nodded. All feelings aside, he knew when someone was truly upset, and would try and help them in any way. His friends called it his sixth sense. Mostly.  
Tony called it Mother Hen-ing to The Extreme.  
No one complained about it, however, as he was the universes best shoulder to cry on. 

And today, it seemed, he was going full on protective mode. 

“One black coffee with one sugar.” Clint said softly, placing the mug down on the table. She looked at the cookie on the side of her plate with a level of curiosity.  
“Thor. Our baker. One of our bakers, kinda.” Clint said in explanation. “He makes them in crappy weather.” 

She nodded, taking a bite with her coffee. 

“Hey, I get off my shift in... 10 minutes. I was wondering if you wanted to talk. Like, a genuine talk. About stuff. Maybe you need it?” He began rambling. “I mean, don’t feel obliged, it’s just here if you need it, y’know. No strings attached.” 

She looked up at him in intrigue. “Yeah. Actually.” She sighed. 

He walked back over to where Steve was standing, looking a little concerned. “She ok?”

“I’ll find out.” Clint said quietly, wiping down the machine. 

“Oh my George _Washington_ , I’m telling Tony.” Steve pushed open the door to the kitchen excitedly. “Tony! Code ‘Mother Hen’!” Clint heard Steve shout, slightly muffled from the kitchen. Tony screamed in response. Clint sighed, rubbing his face. Sometimes he hated the two. 

 

“Hey,” he slid opposite Natasha, having untied his apron and let down his shirt so it was more comfortable. “What’s up?” 

She leaned back slightly, clicking her neck. “Life. Before we talk though; what’s your name?” 

“Clint. Clint Barton.” 

She nodded. “Nice name. I’m Natasha. Natasha Romanoff.” 

“I know. I mean,” he began, thinking he’d just fucked everything up. “I saw your poster for _Swan Lake_ a few weeks ago and I recognised you from the café and so yeah. Sorry, did I make this awkward? I tend to do that. I’m cursed.” 

She smiled, shaking her head. “No, it’s fine. It happens sometimes. I just never get that reaction to it. It’s nice to hear someone ask if they made it awkward, too.” 

“Ah. Right.” Clint said, shifting slightly. “So. Life, amirite.” 

She smiled again. “Yeah. Is this the part where I vent and you vent and we go our seperate ways? Not that I want us to go our separate ways. You seem cool.” 

“First I’ve heard. I binge watch _Doctor Who_ instead of dealing with my problems and have a career built on a caffeine addiction that most professionals would call a serious problem.” Clint replied with nonchalance. It made her laugh, which he was proud of. Her laugh was beautiful. 

“Me too. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to binge watch _Sherlock_ , but from experience, don’t try; you’ll cry your eyes out and implode from the amount of subtext between John and Sherlock.” 

“Oh my gosh you ship them too! Awesome. Common ground is great.” Clint said. 

“We’re diverting slightly. I’m chill with it.” 

“Me too. Forever better at deep and meaningful conversations that divert than small talk. So. Fire away at me with your ships, favourite colours, problems, comfort foods. I don’t mind. I like listening.” 

The two talked at the table until Tony kicked them out. They didn’t stop talking, Clint saying he knew a great place where they did a mean curry. Clint found that over the evening, he gradually found himself swept up in everything Natasha said, from how much she loved watching TV shows probably aimed at 8 year olds, to favourite animals, to astronomy. Clint found himself more and more curious about the depth of her personality, and she seemed more curious about his, asking all sorts of questions and smiling at his responses. 

“So, problems.” She said halfway through the evening. “If you still want my issues forced upon you.”

“Force would imply I don’t want to hear them. Which I do. Because apparently I’m good at giving advice or listening or whatever.” 

Natasha smiled again. Clint loved that smile. “Ok. I’ll warn you though, I’m not much of someone to talk about their innermost feelings so this could be a bit of a mess.”

“Nothing you’re not comfortable with.” Clint replied sincerely. 

“No, no it’s fine. You seem pretty trustworthy.” She took a sip of gin and tonic before continuing. “So. You saw the poster for the ballet.” 

Clint nodded. 

“Well. It was... fun? For a while. The instructor, choreographer, call him what you will. _He_ was a nightmare. Pierce, I think his name was. It was like he took joy in lowering the self esteems of millennials to the point of their self destruction. Or maybe just me. T’Challa was fine, so was Sharon for the most part. I mean, sure he was a bit of a prick to her, but _everything_ I did was imperfect. ‘Natasha! Stop holding your hands so high!’ ‘Natasha! Bring your leg up higher!’ ‘Natasha! Bring yourself onto pointe earlier!’ ‘Natasha, Natasha, Natasha’ all the time. Then it was, ‘Natasha, stop doing anything that doesn’t involve your piece, and remember that you’re only ‘one of the best’ dancers here and I can replace you next time, and remember you account to nothing, you’re just a pretty face, yadda yadda yadda.’ I mean, I’ve been dealing with many demons since Russia, but it pushed me over the edge a bit, y’know?” 

Clint nodded again, atmosphere changed from the happy vibe it had previously held to something more serious. “Thats emotional abuse. It’s illegal. He could be fired for it.” 

“He nearly was, back in the 90’s. His lawyer was amazing though, so he got to stay. Bullshit in everyone’s opinion, but what’re you gonna do.” 

He frowned. “What the fuck?” 

“Да, да. It sucks. He supposedly saw a psychologist for a few years. And if this is what he’s like _after_ , it must have been a fucking _nightmare_ way back when.” 

Clint sighed, taking a sip of beer. “Yeah.” The two sat in silence for a few moments before moving on to talk about other things. 

They eventually parted ways at 11 pm, after walking around Manhattan when the snow had stopped. Natasha told him quietly she enjoyed the evening.  
“No strings attached.” She said. 

“None. Just honest, pure, one on one.” Clint replied reassuringly. 

 

Clint went home and lay on his bed for hours. _Nope,_ he thought. _I am 100% truly falling for her._

Little did he know that Natasha thought the same. 

 

“Alright,” Angie said smugly when he walked in the café the next morning. “Spill.”

Clint sighed. He seemed to be doing that more and more as of late. 

“We talked.” He began making a coffee, in an attempt to drown Angie out. He then remembered that Tony and Thor would both be able to hear the noise. He thumped his head on the edge of the machine as Tony burst through the kitchen door. 

“Tell me all.” He said desperately. 

“We talked.” Clint replied, stirring cream and sugar into his coffee. 

“And?” The two said together. 

“And what?” Clint asked. 

Tony sighed. “What happened? A little birdie told me you were out until 11.” 

Cling frowned. “Who the fu- oh. I texted her on WhatsApp. And you guys saw when I was last seen. Great.” 

“Still haven’t told us what happened.” Angie pointed out, batting her eyelashes. 

“She’s really cool. And funny. And generally nice.” 

Tony and Angie groaned. “And perfect and everything you’ve ever dreamed of and uugghh...” 

“What else did you expect?” Clint quizzed. 

Angie frowned this time, shifting her pastel-pink skinny jean clad legs. “Now that you mention it Barton, I have no idea. But I’m still texting Peggy.” 

 

And it became almost regular. Some nights the two would go out, sometimes just walk around the city, others they would watch Netflix in Clint’s apartment. The first time it happened, Natasha specifically said that there would be no sex involved. Clint gagged and said he wouldn’t dream of it.  
The two grew closer in the space of two short weeks, faster than either had made friends with anyone. 

 

“Man, is this gonna become a thing?” Clint asked as they finished _Dune_. 

“What, watching sci fi movies and eating pizza?” Natasha said, helping herself to another slice of meatlovers. “If you want. I’m not complaining.” 

“Thank goodness.” He muttered, reaching for the remote. “What’d you say. _Star Wars_?” 

“Only if it’s not any of the prequels. They’re awful.” 

They ended up watching _Empire Strikes Back_ , Natasha only catching a taxi at 1 am. 

 

“I swear.” Steve muttered to Angie on the Saturday morning. “I used to think it was just Clint falling in love but it’s both of them. Being blind.”  
Blink-182 played quietly through the speakers from Steve’s phone, a change from Green Day which had played for half an hour straight previous. His hair, much to Angie’s delight, was now purple. 

“Oh yeah. And we have to watch.” Angie replied, shrugging on her apron over a Banksy shirt. Steve had always wondered, with Peggy studying law and PoliSci, what she thought of Banksy. 

“One of these days, I’m gonna force those two to talk about this blatant chemistry. 

“Oh,” Tony said, emerging from the stairs. “Are we talking about From Russia with Love and Captain Kirk? I wanna join in.” 

“We’re talking about how they need to get their shit together before divine or dine intervention forces them to.” Angie replied. 

“Divine or Dine?” Tony asked. “Isn’t that a country band?” 

“Nope, that’s Angie taking charge with apple pie and angel wings.” Steve said, raking a hand through his hair.

“Now that you mention it, I wanna see that.” Tony leaned on the counter, clicking his neck. “Speak of the devil.”  
Clint pushed the door of the café open, cold breeze blowing in behind him.

“Looking awfully chipper this morning,” Angie said in greeting. 

“Really? Ok.” He replied. “I mean, I got like, 11 hours of sleep and watched _Empire Strikes Back_ last night. Maybe that’s why.” 

“With Natasha?” Steve said elbowing his friend in the ribs lightly. 

Clint glared. “Yes, you shitbucket. Now leave. It’s my shift.” 

Steve cackled, running into the kitchen to hang up his apron while Tony scampered back up the stairs, giggling. 

Angie opened her mouth to say something, but Clint held up a finger in warning. “Ah- no.” 

Angie shut her mouth. 

 

And it so happened that three days before Christmas, Clint and Natasha decided to go to a Denny’s at 11 pm, after watching _Lost_ for four and a half hours. Some may call that a mistake, but both Natasha and Clint called it a good damn use of time. 

“Why do we always end up here?” Clint said dramatically, pretending to cry. 

“Where, at Denny’s? I dunno, but their waffles are good so I’m not complaining.” Natasha replied, eyeing the menu. 

“Yeah, neither.”  
They ordered from a waiter that looked slightly too dead inside to be human and gradually their conversations became less structured and more interesting. 

“Y’know,” Clint said through a mouthful of blueberries and syrup. “Steve has an arrest record.” 

“Really?” Natasha asked, shocked. “What for? How is he allowed to study at Shield?” 

Cling giggled. “I dunno. He mostly gets in trouble at political protests when things get rowdy. Wrong place, wrong time. He has one that says ‘geese’.” 

“‘Geese’?” Natasha raised an eyebrow. 

“Maybe it’s an acronym.” 

“But for what?” She muttered, pushing half a waffle around her plate. 

“Get Ethel to Evict Steve... who the fuck is Ethel.” 

“That’s the name of my autobiography. Or ‘Jared Can’t Read This’.” 

“Vine nerd.” Clint muttered. 

 

The two walked leisurely back through Manhattan, laughing and talking, occasionally slipping on ice, but always getting up again. A drunk guy on a corner cat called at Natasha, shouting about how she had nice tits. Before Clint could get mad, however, she merely responded with ‘I know, but so does your wife so you should be satisfied. I sure as hell was.’  
Clint, instead, laughed until his ribs hurt. Natasha was delighted. 

 

It began to snow, big, thick drops gently around them, getting stuck in their hair and eyelashes. The world became quieter, more muted, no sound but their footsteps and the occasional car passing a few streets down. Clint’s hands were freezing, but he didn’t mind so much. The lights reflected off the fresh white sheet across the streets, giving the world a soft, bright aura. 

“So,” Natasha murmured when they stood on the street corner where they usually parted ways. “Thanks. Again. For everything.” 

“My pleasure,” Clint said softly. It seemed appropriate to talk in hushed and quiet tones as the world was silent around them. Natasha looked to the streetlight above them. 

“Huh.” She said. “Mistletoe.” And kissed him quickly, before saying a hurried goodnight and turning to walk to her apartment. 

Clint stood shellshocked. He had no idea what had just happened but it was... nice. Like a butterfly landed on his lips, leaving them tasting like sugar. He realised he was probably blushing deeper with every moment that passed and rubbed some snow on his face. 

And when he got back to his own small apartment he was so overwhelmed he fell asleep in his clothes. 

 

“Clint Barton.” Angie said in shock. “You look like you have seen a _ghost_.” 

Clint smiled, though still in thorough shock, feeling gradually more and more pleased as each waking moment passed. “Do I? I mean, I only got in at like, 2:30 last night.” 

“Where the _hell_ did you guys go to be getting in at 2:30 am?” The kitchen door swung open to reveal Tony. 

“Went to Denny’s.” Clint shrugged. 

“Wow, what a romantic you are, Clint.” Angie rolled her eyes, taking a slightly burnt pastry from Thor, who had appeared with a tray of pastries not fit for sale, but not bad enough for the bin. Clint helped himself to one, blueberry jam seeping out at the edges. _Fucking blueberries following me around, man._ He thought, thinking of the night before. 

“What? You watch four hours of _Lost_ and then you decide you’re hungry and the only place open is Denny’s.” 

“I do not believe I have had the opportunity to experience this mysterious Denny’s.” Thor said. “Who is he? Is he nice?” 

“Nope, Denny’s is a night diner for tumblr users and insomniacs.” Angie replied though a mouthful of strawberry pie. 

“I mean- well no- yes.” Clint eventually sighed in defeat. “Though I swear there was one guy on crack.”

“Did you sell him the crack like Dear old Dad thinks you do?” 

Clint looked at him sceptically before nodding. “Yes. Yes I did.” 

 

And conversations like these distracted Clint enough throughout the day, until Natasha herself walked through the doors again. 

“Heya Natasha,” Steve said in greeting. If you’re friends with Clint, you’re gonna be friends with his friends (thus how the group of misfits was formed). “I’m assuming the usual?” 

“Actually, I was wondering if there was anything that Clint would recommend?” She asked. Clint looked up from where he was turning slightly pink. 

“Uh.” He started. “I’d say Steve’s Baileys Coffee, but it’s not yet 6, so... the salted caramel latte.” 

“Well then, I’ll have that.” She said with a smile. 

“$4. Anything else?” Steve said, writing her order down. 

“No thanks.” She payed and walked over to her usual seat, which unfortunately was right next to three giggly girls who had spent their time ordering flirting with Steve, who in turn had no idea how to respond. 

Steve glared at Clint. “What,” he muttered. “The fuck. Is going on.” 

Clint smiled to himself, frothing syrup and milk. “I dunno. But it’s great.” 

Steve raised a pierced eyebrow. Clint laughed quietly. 

 

“Salted caramel latte. About as dark and bitter as I think your soul is.” Clint said, placing the tall glass by Natasha. The girls had since vacated, leaving their mugs behind, which Clint began clearing up slowly. “And, I was wondering, about-“

“Yeah, I know. Probably should have said more.” Natasha said quietly, taking a sip of the sugary mixture. “Mm, better than Starbucks.”

“Really? I can hear the screams of tumblr hipsters being super offended.” 

“I’ll fight them all. But we digress.” She sighed, turning to face him. “I know it was a bit sudden, but I feel like one of us had to at some point.” 

Clint blushed. “What’d you... what’d you mean?” He picked up a spoon and placed it in a mug slower than he had before. 

“Clint,” she said sincerely. “Finish your shift. Then we can talk.”  
He nodded and went back to where Steve was standing, mouthing ‘what the fuck’ with varying intensities while looking extremely confused. Clint shook his head. 

 

“Alright.” Clint sat down beside Natasha, apron and work mode discarded. “Stuff. Feelings. Yay.” 

“Mm.” Natasha sighed. “Last night. Correct me if I’m wrong but... you enjoyed it. The, kissing part, I mean. _Lost_ is good but...” 

Clint nodded. “Yeah. No, yeah I did. And,” he began quietly. “If you want, I’d uh... like to do more of that sort of thing.” 

“Thank goodness.” Natasha sighed. “I’ve been wondering if you would for ages.” 

“Wait, what? Is this- did you just- you _like me_?” 

Natasha laughed. “Yes, you adorable dumbass. Why do you think I kept coming back? I mean, your coffee is great, don’t get me wrong, but so are you.” 

“So are we- I mean, I wanna be- like, y’know... the thing?”

“The thing?” Natasha asked, raising an eyebrow, laughter in her eyes. 

“Aw, please don’t make me say it, it feels so awkward.”

“I’m making you say it.”

“Fine.” Clint sighed. “Y’know. Like, going out thing. That.” Clint said awkwardly, turning red. 

“If you want. I do.” 

“Yes. I really do.” Clint breathed in relief. “So,” he began, composing himself. “Do you wanna watch more _Lost_ and eat pizza?” 

She smiled. “Definitely.” 

“Oh my butt fuck ballsack.” 

The two spun around as Tony, who had apparently been listening quietly the entire time, decided to speak up. “I mean, I’ve watched romcoms before, and _trust me_ , Pepper doesn’t pick them, but this is _gold_. I am texting-“

He looked at Natasha, who looked like she would kill him slowly, and honestly, Tony wouldn’t hold it against her. “Right, never mind. You two have fun.” He turned and left quietly. 

“What was that about _Lost_ and pizza?” Natasha sighed. 

 

The two watched another 5 hours of _Lost_ , ate three boxes of pizza, and it could almost be comparable to the previous times they had done almost the same thing. Except with more kissing. And cuddling. And being closer to each other than they had been. 

 

“Merry Christmas, fuckers.” Steve said as he got in for his shift. “Hope y’all are having a wonderful time.”  
The café was closed on Christmas and Boxing Day, so work was off and the atmosphere was buzzing. 

“Uh uh, sucker. Let’s see your punk ass Christmas shirt.” Tony said as Steve tried to pull on an apron quickly. Tony was wearing a hideous shirt with Santa and all his reindeer that said ‘HO HO HO’ in comic sans across the top. Everyone hated it. 

“Fine,” Steve sighed. His shirt was black (what a change) with small, glittery writing that said ‘Happy Holliday’s’. 

“Boring.” Tony muttered. 

“At least I don’t look like a department store window.” Steve called as the kitchen door swung shut. “And you,” Steve began, pointing a finger at Clint. “You are telling me _everything_.”

Clint smiled. “She’s my girlfriend.” 

“Yes yes, but how the hell did you two even admit it?” 

“Mistletoe.” He muttered, with more blushing than he wanted. 

Steve groaned. 

“Funny, everyone else has had the same reaction.” 

“Thats coz y’all fucking saps!” Steve exclaimed, turning to take the order of an old lady who looked more and more confused. “Don’t worry, he’s just finally admitted feeling to someone he ought to have ages ago.”  
The old woman smiled, nodding knowingly. 

 

Christmas passed in a flurry of sleep, coffee, and texting Natasha (who was away for a week with Shield on special soloist training that she called ‘You Have No Family Or Life As A Soloist’ week). By the time New Year’s Eve rolled around, Steve called him an absolute lovesick mess, Tony called his a whiny bitch, Angie called him twice, Peggy called him once to organise New Year party things (thank the lord for Peggy Carter), and he called himself a hopeless case as he shot a makeshift target with Nerf Rebel arrow darts (thank you Tony for bringing up his high school sport of archery). 

In fact he was looking forward to New Year a little too much, as Natasha would be back from Seattle and Clint was missing her despite the fact it had only been a week. 

 

The dress code for the party, held in Pepper and Tony’s flat, was ‘Smart Casual’ which in Tony’s case meant a less expensive suit than usual, in Pepper’s in meant a slightly more casual dress than usual, in Steve’s meant ‘No Green Day Shirt You Punk Ass Bitch’, and in Clint’s case meant whatever wasn’t on the floor. 

In Natasha’s case it meant cocktail dress, which is probably the closest to what ‘smart casual’ actually was in the minds of most. She had a rather lovely black and red one she wore after shows when they had to talk to fancy guests, which is not the same as the one she wore when talking to sponsors. 

 

But everyone arrived on time without having to rush (unlike in what many have fondly dubbed ‘The Wedding Incident’). Rhodey had time off training recruits down south and arrived wearing a smart khaki button down shirt and blue jeans, looking remarkably more awake than The Wedding Incident. Bruce turned up too, in a pop art tee, blazer, and black trousers, and not smelling like burning oil or chemicals (which meant he had left the Lab early enough to take a long shower).  
Tony was wearing a less expensive suit than usual, and Pepper in a slightly more casual dress than usual, to absolutely no ones surprise. 

Peggy was wearing a lovely red dress that would usually look slightly odd but she could wear better than anyone else in the room, although Tony said she could pull of wearing a potato sack, which everyone agreed with.  
Angie was sporting her classic pink skinny jeans and a a frilly white shirt that Peggy said was a mistake, but the garment somehow managed to stay entirely clean throughout the evening.  
Steve followed the unfortunate trend of white shirts with a smart new button down (much to everyone’s surprise), black skinny jeans (to no ones surprise), and Converse shoes instead of Doc Martens.  
Thor was wearing some form of traditional Norwegian clothing which he swore was very common at parties but Clint called complete bullshit on the red cape.  
Clint himself actually managed to do the washing and turned up looking half decent in a purple polo tee and blue jeans that had been ironed for the first time in months. 

And Natasha, of course, turned up looking absolutely stunning in a knee length black dress with red trimming and simple black heels that she somehow managed to make look more than simple.  
And of course she arrived during the final chorus of Victorious, making it seem all the more badass. 

 

“Dear aunt Laura she looks nice,” Peggy remarked to Clint when she walked through the door and looked up to admire the silver and gold ribbon hanging from the ceiling that Pepper and Tony had spent a good three hours trying to put up. “Go say hi to your girlfriend.” 

Natasha spotted Clint and smiled, making her way over to where Clint stood by the wall. “Hey.” She said. 

“You look amazing.” Clint sighed. 

She laughed, strands of red hair falling out of her messy bun. “Thanks, dork.” 

“How was soloist week?” 

She groaned. “Do I still have legs? It feels like I don’t.” 

“Nope, still completely there. Was it that bad?”

She nodded, grabbing a plastic glass and filling it with red wine, taking a sip. “Damn, this is good. But yes. It was _really_ that bad. Like, I had fun, sure, but my muscles are killing me. Enough about my amazing week of death. What’ve I missed?”

 

“Angie, dear, will you please grab Steve and tell him to stop looking so sad?” Peggy nodded towards Steve, who’s hair was now a bright shade of red and rather unmissable, who was leaning against a wall looking slightly confused and forlorn, staring intensely at his drink. 

Angie pulled him over to where she and Peggy stood by the enormous windows at one corner of the room, with a little unenthusiastic complaining from Steve. 

“Why the long face, Steve?” Peggy said in her thick English accent. 

Steve shrugged, shifting his camera strap further up his shoulder. 

“My goodness Steven, we’re not thick.” Angie exclaimed. “There is clearly something wrong in this situation and we are going to find out.” 

Steve glared at the two of them. “Before we begin, I hate both of you.” He sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “Alright, but I’m warning you, it’s really fucking dumb.” 

“Go on.” Peggy urged. 

“Ugh fine. It’s just, I dunno. Everyone here is having the time of their life with their partner or whatever and it looks nice! It looks really fun. But when you don’t know what it’s _like_...”

“You feel kinda lonely.” Angie finished sympathetically. “Yeah. I can imagine.” 

“Steve, you’re not even 23 yet. You don’t have to feel a need to be with anyone. Some of us are just... lucky. Give it time.” Peggy reassured. 

“Yeah. I mean, Tony and Pepper have known each other for ages, and we all knew that would happen. Peggy and I, well. That happened on its own, and you said it was inevitable literally last week. Clint and Natasha are recent news, and he’s like, 25. Bruce still doesn’t have a partner and he’s three years older than Tony.”

“You say that like 30 is old.” Steve raised a pierced eyebrow. 

“I’m trying to make you feel better damnit.” Angie said in mock annoyance. 

“Steve, this is the year you are going to find true love.” Peggy said so firmly, Steve had to laugh. 

“Ok ok. Fine. I’m not gonna argue with a law student.” 

“Damn right you’re not.” Angie muttered into her glass. Steve snorted. 

 

It soon came to five minutes to midnight and no one was drunk this time, much to Pepper’s delight, but Bruce was asleep on the couch (until Tony played the kazoo in his ear, which earned him a punch in the stomach and many asking where on earth he actually got a kazoo _from_ in the first place).  
Natasha and Clint were giggling in the corner, and most would think they were flirting, but instead they were coming up with more and more wild theories about _Lost_.  
Angie and Peggy _were_ flirting, however, though it looked like they were in casual conversation. Angie was trying to get Peggy to break her straight face by saying the filthiest things she could while Peggy was practicing her ‘Court Face’.  
Steve had decided to take some photos on his camera which seemed to be with him at every party or occasion he went to. 

 

And then the clock struck 12, the fireworks flew and lit up the room through the windows, and Clint pulled Natasha into a kiss that felt like heaven. 

The two, to say the least, were ecstatic. 

 

Clint Barton lives on the twelfth story of a modern block of flats just five streets away from the _Red Pepper Café_ , seven streets from Shield Ballet school, or a fifteen to twenty minute walk if there’s not too many people. In the building lives a wide range of diverse people, all whom knew Clint well enough to ask how he is if seen in passing, but not well enough to ask how his weekend went or how Natasha is doing. Not that he minds.

Each weekday he wakes up at 6:30 am, and rolls over to wake Nat up at 6:45 (if she wasn’t already awake). The two walk to the café at 7:15, Nat continuing to Shield, and he is ready to work by 7:30. 

At 7:30, Tony is already downstairs in the kitchen with Thor, the Norwegian baker that had stumbled into the café one rainy afternoon, struck up a conversation with Tony, become a regular, become a friend, and then been hired when they discovered he could bake pastries that would make Gordon Ramsay look like an amateur. Clint plugs his phone into the speakers and shuffles his music, which was a mixture of his and Nat’s. 

At 7:45, Angie arrives, bright faced and talkative, ready to take orders and converse in small talk with customers. 

At 8, the first customers trickle in, mostly students and hurried workers, who order different varieties of coffee and muffins in takeaway boxes and cups before bustling off. At this point, Tony and Thor have finished with the morning round of baking and come out of the sugary smelling kitchen to give the tables a quick wipe down and grab a coffee that Clint always sets aside for the two before the rush of business men and women looking for a quiet place to sit and work start to flood through the doors. Clint then takes the time to text Natasha, who responds soon after with a sarcastic comment or a ‘:)’. 

After the heavy morning rush with Angie working behind the counter with him, he prepares for the trickle of mothers with screaming children, and hipster bloggers to take their respective seats at the tables and order obscure teas and blueberry muffins that are consumed over chatter that Clint finds rather entertaining to listen in to while drying coffee mugs. He always texts Nat the highlights. 

At 2:30 Angie leaves after wiping down the tables and hanging up her apron. At 3, Steve gets in from art school, covered in paint or charcoal, hanging his satchel and one of his many black jackets on the coat hangers in the kitchen before pulling on an apron and helping with the afternoon of tourists, students in need of a break and quiet place to study, and people who dress like FBI agents and type furiously on their computers with furrowed brows. At this point, Steve plugs in his phone and plays his own music, which is all heavily pop punk, and asks if he and Nat were ‘doing it safely’, which Clint laughs at. 

At 3:30, Natasha gets in from Shield and sits on the counter next to Clint, talking and complaining about teachers and other students and younger soloists, and of course kissing when the two can. 

At 5:30 the café takes its last order and Steve flips the ‘OPEN’ sign to ‘CLOSED’. At 5:45, the last people have filtered out and Tony, Thor, Steve, Clint, and Natasha all clean up for the night. 

On weekends, Clint wakes up at 11 am, sometimes naked sometimes not, is out the door by 12, and arrives before the lunch rush at 12:15, where Steve and Angie will already be working and chatting. 

At 2, Steve finishes his shift and either leaves, or sits in one of the booths to work on his art or edit photos. Angie chats away with Clint happily, the two serving coffee, cake, and sandwiches. At 5:30, the café shuts as usual and, depending on the Saturday, everyone goes upstairs for movie night with Pepper and Tony. 

To say the least, Clint Barton’s life has a perfect rhythm and comfortable motion that he wouldn’t change any time soon.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok hope you liked don’t expect this to be a regular. I said that last time. Get used to it.  
> Happy New Year suckers, hope y’all get to watch Black Panther before a sassy tweet sparks the end of the world.  
> Follow my Instagram fan/meme account (random_sexuality_pun), fun lgbt account here (queerio.cheerios, and look for me, Harley) and my tumblr (insidious-spoon) if you want. Bye.


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